by Rosie Nixon
I turned to Maurice. “I told you he was trouble. But we got the last laugh.”
Maurice wasn’t listening. He had pulled out his reading glasses and was so close to the screen his nose was almost touching it. His face had turned white and he looked like he was about to be sick. Vicky grabbed her Chanel handbag from the floor and urgently struggled to open the clasp. She held it open for Maurice and there was a retching sound as he leaned over the side of the desk and brought up a large amount of congealed coffee into the bag.
“Gross!” said Noah, holding his nose, as we all stared at Maurice, hunched over and heaving. Instinctively, I ran across and began rubbing his back sympathetically.
“Mon Dieu,” he winced.
“A Chanel as well.” I shook my head.
“It’s okay, it’s fake—the detailing is shit,” Vicky replied. She was sitting on Trey’s knee; the pair had barely been able to keep their hands off each other since being reunited after the show. “The Bag Drop Woman isn’t as good as Poppy might have led us to believe. I shouldn’t have bothered going back.”
Rob glanced at me. The mention of Poppy’s name and the bag-drop night still created a bit of tension between us.
“Anyway, we’re going shopping for the real thing tomorrow.” Trey winked, squeezing Vicky around the waist. “At the airport.”
But I couldn’t take my eyes off Maurice, whose extreme physical reaction to seeing the image of Dimitri puzzled me.
“The guy was clearly trying to do his best to avoid the cameras,” Winnie explained as the image played out, showing Dimitri raise his collar as high as it would go, before taking the pouch containing the bra out of his bag and handing it over. “He told me he worked in fashion and had a sample he thought would look great onstage. It happens sometimes, when designers are having a clear-out of last season’s collection, they know we’ll provide a home for anything attention grabby. Obviously, I loved it immediately.” She glanced over to Maurice, who still looked pale and was sitting very quietly. “It’s an exquisite piece. But why the long face, sugar? Aren’t you glad we’ve found the culprit? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“A ghost,” Maurice repeated, his head down. “Oui, unfortunately, I feel like I have. I haven’t seen him in years, but I’d recognize that face anywhere. What I need to know is what my ex-boyfriend was doing selling the ruby bra?”
“Wait a minute, I don’t understand,” I said. “Are you saying Dimitri is your ex-boyfriend?”
“Dimitri? That’s Alexanda,” Maurice informed me, before lowering his voice to a whisper. “Alexanda Dimitri Bellafonte, the assistant who set me up with the Hitler moustaches all those years ago. How could I not have put this together?”
Something clicked in my head.
“So Dimitri from Angel Wear, he was your assistant and ex-boyfriend, too?” Maurice didn’t need to confirm, his distraught face said it all. I realized that the pair had not actually come into direct contact the whole time I’d been working with Maurice; Dimitri must have made sure of it.
“And of course he would know the code to the safe—it was one-nine-three-seven, the year of Marianne’s birth,” Maurice continued. “I used the same four digits for all my security codes back in the day. It didn’t even cross my mind to change it. Merde, he must think I’m an imbecile.”
I shrugged. “I never thought for one moment you might know Dimitri. I thought he was trying to ruin me.”
I sank down into my seat.
From the other side of the door, we could hear loud music and laughter from the club; no doubt the Icons were getting stuck into shots at the bar or tearing up the dance floor, but inside this dark stuffy back room—which now smelled of puke—we were reeling from the evening’s big revelation.
“I need to get out of here,” Maurice said, rising unsteadily. I stood up, ready to try to convince him to stay and talk it through, but Rob put out a hand to stop me.
“Let him go,” he whispered.
And he was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Maurice Chan entered the bar. Thanks to the success of the Angel Wear show he was, at this moment, once again one of the world’s most famous fashion designers. He was ushered straight in and offered his choice of table by the maître d’.
“Monsieur Chan, it’s fantastic to see you again,” the host said, warmly shaking his hand.
His surprised tone implied Maurice hadn’t been to the restaurant for a long time.
But Maurice had no appetite for food this evening. Instead, he headed straight for the last chair at the end of the bar. The chair was occupied—as he knew it would be.
“I thought I’d find you here,” he said to the man sitting there. “A chameleon in many ways, but a leopard in so many others.”
The man didn’t look up. The collar on his long trench coat was turned up and there was a shabby looking polka-dotted handkerchief shoved into the top pocket. He was hunched over a cut-crystal tumbler containing ice and a dark spirit. Maurice looked down to the man’s feet—he was wearing almost identical Cuban heels to his own. The fact that glitter was spilling out from them confirmed he was indeed talking to the right person. Not that he was in any doubt.
“Alexanda,” he said. “Or should I call you Dimitri, these days?”
The man grunted in response.
“You really thought you could ruin me for a second time? Well, how your plan spectacularly backfired.” He chuckled.
“Can I get you a drink?” asked the bartender, slightly embarrassed to have interrupted what was clearly an awkward moment.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” Maurice replied. “Another for you, Dimitri, or have you had enough?”
“Whatever,” Dimitri replied sarcastically, without moving his body.
“Cold-hearted until the end,” Maurice stated, addressing his remark to the waiter.
“Cold-hearted? How can you of all people, call me cold-hearted?” Dimitri fumed, suddenly enraged. His voice raised further. “You dumped me for your career, remember? You seem to have conveniently forgotten that.”
Maurice was taken aback. He tried to cast his mind back, but Dimitri was hell-bent on doing the job for him.
“You were so obsessed with your work you dumped me because I wasn’t ‘a good fit for your career’—and those are your words, not mine, Maurice.” He paused and took a deep breath. It was taking every muscle in his body not to let ten years of built-up anguish come tumbling out all at once. “I thought that if your career failed, there might be a chance it would work between us and you’d want me back.”
Maurice was floored by this news. “You mean to tell me you did all this for love?”
“The first time around,” Dimitri said, wiping away a stray tear as it fell down his cheek. “But this time I just needed you to go away. The minute Amber walked through the Angel Wear doors, I knew you wouldn’t be far behind. You were all over her Instagram account—flaunting yourself and your ‘return.’ It wasn’t hard to work out what the two of you were planning.”
“As it happens, I wasn’t planning anything at all,” Maurice said honestly. “One thing seemed to lead to another.”
And then the pair sat and drank in silence.
“I did love you very much, you know,” Maurice said sadly, as he swallowed the last drop of rum in his glass. The passage of time had made his anger soften. “And you’re right, I was married to my work. Hasn’t the last decade been payback enough for you? Anyway, it’s irrelevant now. I made a decision when I took to the runway with Amber this evening. This world isn’t for me anymore, it’s time for new talent to shine. I’ve had my moment.”
“So, what will the great Maurice Chan do now?” Dimitri asked bitterly. He had turned to face him front on, even though his eyes were shining wet with tears.
“I’m thinking of the antiques business,” Maurice revealed, unfazed. “Not only because I’m an old croc myself, but because I enjoyed bringing the ruby bra back to life—that was the gre
atest part of all this for me. I’m wondering about a business restoring old love tokens to their former glory.”
“Very romantic,” Dimitri commented, unable to resist a parting dig.
“Maybe I’ve changed.” Maurice smiled as he got up from his chair to leave the bar. “Maybe you could change, too.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
At exactly the same moment, across town, 102 floors up on a small private terrace on the Empire State Building, Rob produced a bottle of chilled champagne and two glasses from the rucksack I hadn’t even noticed he was carrying.
He set it all down and we took a moment to breathe in the view before us. Manhattan had never looked so tranquil; millions of white and gold lights twinkled beneath us and tiny yellow matchbox taxis silently moved around the grid of high-rise buildings—but none higher than where we sat now.
“It’s pretty awesome, isn’t it?” he said at last.
“Just slightly,” I replied. “How on Earth did you sort this out?”
I was referring to the limo that had picked us up from Purple Rain and brought us here, to a floor away from the rest of the tourists, so exclusive that you have to be a VVIP to book it, so Rob had informed me on the way up the narrow staircase.
“Ron might have had something to do with it,” he conceded. “He’s connected.”
“Lucky we didn’t actually bury him alive in glitter then.” I chuckled. “He might not have been so accommodating.”
“What a night,” Rob said, shaking his head.
“And it’s still going on back at the club—I’m sure I saw Astrid giving Dan the eye at the bar. And as for Vicky and Trey—it wouldn’t surprise me if they’re on the first plane back to LA in the morning.”
Rob laughed. “I think we’re probably best out of there. But what about you?” He turned to look at me.
“Me?”
“Yes, how are you feeling this evening, Amber Green?”
“I think I’m starting to look forward to going home now,” I said. “I don’t think anything could top today. Has Ron told you when filming will end?”
“We had a rushed conversation after the show,” he revealed. “He’s already got plans for Wonder Winnie—he mentioned something about sponsoring her to develop a line of lingerie for trans women that covers the many stages of transitioning. If Winnie’s up for it, he wants us to film her journey.”
“I wonder how the Icons will take it . . . ?” I looked at him curiously, feeling slightly tickled by the prospect of them being overshadowed by a little-known drag queen.
“I’m sure they’ll be thrilled for her,” he said, sarcastically. “But none of them were particularly interesting on camera, to be honest—at least Winnie has a proper story to tell. Anyway, filming has been parked until he can get to Winnie.”
We both paused, contemplating what this might mean. He peered over the railings again.
“I used to have a thing about heights,” he revealed, changing the subject. “I should be clinging to you, begging to go back in.” He jokingly grabbed my arm, making me jump. “But instead I feel strangely calm up here. Do you?”
He turned to look me straight in the eye, and he didn’t move his gaze for what felt like the longest time. It made me feel slightly embarrassed.
I looked back over the edge. “I’m okay with it. I think it comes from climbing to the highest branches of the pear tree in my parents’ garden and staying there for hours on end when I was little. If they couldn’t find me in my room, they always knew where I would be.”
“So you’re a secret tree hugger?” he teased.
I nudged his shoulder. “Watch it, you’re in a very vulnerable position right now, remember.”
But instead of flinching, he just kept staring. Why is he looking at me so intensely?
And then he delved into his rucksack again; he seemed to be looking for something. Oh, God, he’s not, is he? Oh. My. God. He’s going to propose.
“Are you going to propose?” I surprised myself by saying the words out loud. They hung in the air between us, as a panic swept over Rob’s face. “Oh, this is awkward.” I lowered my eyes, fixing on the tip of my shoe.
Right on cue a man holding a camera with a large flash popped his head around the door.
“Hey, official Empire State photographer—okay if I take a few shots now?”
“Eh? I didn’t . . . just give us a minute please.” Rob held him back by raising his hand. Then he swallowed hard. “W-would you like me to, Amber? Ask you, I mean?”
My legs had gone to jelly. I gripped the railing in front of me tighter.
“Honestly?” I began.
He nodded nervously in response.
“Um, I don’t know if I could handle it after today,” I said softly.
He looked uncomfortable. “So, you wouldn’t be disappointed if I didn’t?”
“Not at all, in fact, I’d really rather you didn’t.” I looked him in the eye, trying to gauge his reaction. “If that’s okay?”
He breathed a sigh of relief almost as big as my own. “Thank goodness for that.”
I smiled. “So you weren’t going to?”
“I was more thinking we’d just enjoy the view,” he continued.
“Oh, God, this is really embarrassing,” I said awkwardly.
“So, it’s okay, me not proposing, I mean?”
I threw my arms around his shoulders. “It’s more than okay. It’s perfect!”
“But I do love you very much, you know,” he said earnestly.
“I know,” I said, as he offered me a champagne flute. “Seriously, I’m not ready for marriage—not yet anyway.” I meant every word.
“There is something I was wondering about though,” he said, eyes shining brightly. “I was thinking that, when we get back to London in a few weeks, perhaps we could flat hunt together? I’ve loved waking up with you every morning and I don’t want that to end.”
I beamed. “Robert Walker, are you officially asking me to move in with you?”
“Yes, m’am, I am,” he said, looking at me in his adorable, slightly shy way. “As long as we can find somewhere with space for Pinky. And a spare room in case of unexpected guests.” He winked.
“It’s a deal.” I held out my hand. “Somewhere bigger than a sardine tin.”
He smiled, popping the cork from the bottle. “Then I would like to propose a toast, excuse the pun, to you, Amber Green.” He filled our glasses and gestured to the vista beneath us, which resembled a scene from a sci-fi film. “You never cease to amaze me and I can’t wait to get our own flat together in London.” He smiled tenderly. Then he raised his glass and we chinked. “Oh, hang on a minute. Photographer!” he called over his shoulder and the man immediately reappeared. “Now is great.”
The taste of cold champagne bubbles fizzing down my throat was delicious. “Here’s to us!”
We melted into each other’s lips and began kissing passionately, eyes glazed. For a few seconds I was unsure where each of us ended and the other began. We didn’t care that the photographer was merrily snapping away around us.
“Now surely you’re not going to stop me from posting a photo of this?” I said when we finally broke apart.
“Would you mind?” I asked the photographer, holding out my phone.
He shook his head, and muttered, “What’s the point of the official . . .”
We put our heads together and posed. I immediately uploaded the photo to Instagram. Amara filter; caption: “The stylist and her man take Manhattan.”
Acknowledgments
Very soon after I had finished writing my debut novel, The Stylist, and waved Amber Green and Rob Walker off into the hazy sunshine of a boiling-hot July afternoon on Oxford Street, I just couldn’t get them out of my head; I needed to know where their story would go next. And I already had some ideas bubbling away.
I wrote much of The Stylist on my first maternity leave, so this was the only way I knew how to write a novel—and, as luck would have it
, I fell pregnant again! As well as a bonny boy named Rex, The Stylist Takes Manhattan was born.
Amber’s experience of Manhattan and her home in Williamsburg came to life for me during a research trip there to visit some close friends. To my trusty Brooklyn contingent: thank you for your neighborhood knowledge (Marc), brilliant stories about being a New York stylist (Nina), and cocktail drinking inspiration (Jane and Gemma).
Also, thanks to Zoe and Max for a hilarious anecdote to inspire the “bag drop,” and Michael for introducing me to dreamboat “Noah West.”
Many chapters were written in Belle Amie café in Earlsfield, London, during snatched hours away from my babies. Thanks to them for the great coffee, which powered me through the pages, and for letting me commandeer my regular table for hours on end.
Thank you, Jenny Savill, for encouraging me to keep going, and the brilliant team at HQ—Lisa Milton, Anna Baggaley, and Alison Lindsay—for enabling me to share this story. Your belief in my books means so much.
Also thanks to Holly Nesbitt-Larking and Charlotte Seymour for your much-appreciated proofreading.
Warm hugs to my incredible family, especially Mum and Dad for being so supportive and loving, my darling husband Callum for his patience and generally putting up with me, and to Heath and Rex for bringing such joy to our lives. You have no idea what on earth I do at my laptop, but I’ll enjoy showing you one day.
Finally, importantly, thanks to you, for reading. Without you, none of this would be possible.
Two boys, two books: my husband is a little concerned I seem to need a baby to write a novel . . .
